


and what difference does it make, when this love is over?

by inmoonlightigetseasick



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, lovers to enemies to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 23:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17990828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmoonlightigetseasick/pseuds/inmoonlightigetseasick
Summary: “How do you tell a real from a fake?”Illya’s question had given him pause. Or perhaps he was distracted by the heat of Illya’s lips, insistent on his neck. After a long time he said, “There’s a series of rigorous and meticulous tests but you’d be surprised, sometimes these fakes can get through even those, and then, you just know because it always comes back to bite you in the ass.”Illya paused the tape then. He rewound until he caught the museum the American had mentioned working at. He made some notes to himself. Brief, rigorous, meticulous. He hoped he had gotten past any tests.--AU in which Illya and Napoleon meet some time before the Vinciguerra mission because Illya was a mark Napoleon was ordered to seduce.





	and what difference does it make, when this love is over?

**** “Why do you have to go now?” Illya whined, he reached for the man rolling out of his embrace. Just moments ago he had felt the warm pressure of his skin on his own, the hard planes of his abdomen, and the solid, comfortable weight of him had been a source of dizzying pleasure. 

“Believe me, darling, it is a greater displeasure for me to leave you.” Regardless, he slid deftly back into his underwear, and then his slacks, doing up his belt faster than Illya had time to think. 

“Is there anything I can say to keep you here? Just a few more hours?”

“I’m afraid I have a flight to catch.” 

Illya sighed and buried his face into his pillow. Suddenly he felt the other man’s presence as he leaned over him. Illya turned his face up expectantly and was rewarded with a kiss. It was sweet, slow, and lingering, much like all of their night and morning in this room had been. 

“Before I go,” he sounded serious, “I want you to know this was one of the best nights of my life. It breaks my heart to go.”

“So stay.” As if it were so simple. 

“I wish.” He kissed Illya on the forehead. 

Illya sighed. He had wanted to do this with as much dignity as possible, but now he was just starting to sound desperate. He knew when to quit. 

“It was nice to know you, William.”

“You don’t know how nice it’s been, Mikhail.” 

With that, the American shrugged on his blazer and left Illya’s room, glancing behind him one last time with a dazzling smile pointed Illya’s way. Despite himself, it made his heart leap.

As soon as the door’s latch clicked, Illya scrambled to reach under his bed. Making clumsy work of his hands, he grunted, satisfied when he dislodged it. He brought back up a tiny bug, imperceptible unless you knew what you were looking for. With it, he had a handheld receiver. He toggled the device until it produced sound.

_“So what do you do,”_ he heard his own voice say, slightly breathless and strained. For a while after that there were the soft sounds of kisses, Illya remembered, his cheeks suddenly warm, how he had been silenced by those lips. 

_“Nothing exciting. I’m in the art world.”_

_“What is happening in the art world?”_ Illya reddened again as he remembered how he had run his nose along the curve of the man’s neck, taking in his scent, making him shiver. 

William had chuckled, _“Oh you know, someone’s selling a fake Rembrandt one day, the next day someone discovers a hidden stash of Caravaggio. Sometimes even those turn out to be fakes.”_

_“How do you tell a real from a fake?”_

Illya’s question had given him pause. Or perhaps he was distracted by the heat of Illya’s lips, insistent on his neck. After a long time he said, _“There’s a series of rigorous and meticulous tests but you’d be surprised, sometimes these fakes can get through even those, and then, you just know because it always comes back to bite you in the ass.”_

Illya paused the tape then. He rewound until he caught the museum the American had mentioned working at. He made some notes to himself. Brief, rigorous, meticulous. He hoped he had gotten past any tests. 

Later that night, when he shot his gun down the hallway of the art gallery, clipping a distant figure’s leg and sending him crashing to the ground, despite himself he did a cursory check of the paintings in his path to make sure he hadn’t damaged them. 

It was only the third time he did this that he caught himself and stopped, pausing for a minute to push down any further thought of what any of it meant. 

He had never had trouble keeping a clear head about a mission. 

 

—

 

When Napoleon heard the soft click of the door close behind him, he sighed. He walked briskly down the hallway of the hotel, stopping at the elevator at the far end. With a casual glance to his surroundings, he rustled his hand in his pants pocket. From there, he pulled out a small transmitter, about the size of an olive, but made with square plastic. He closed it carefully into his palm. The elevator made a _ding_ noise as it opened. 

When he got to his car, he pulled out the radio that went with it and began to listen to the recording.

_“I am contractor,_ ” Mikhail had said, his accent dulled the _t_ sounds in his words, but he spoke slowly, with evidently practiced ease. Napoleon remembered biting his tongue to stop him from the urge to speak in Russian.

He had leaned in eagerly at the bar, his voice low and conspiratorial, _“What if I told you I needed something from you, something big and I needed it fast._ ” Napoleon smiled remembering how Mikhail’s cheeks had immediately flushed pink, until he clarified, _“An extension for the wing of a museum, I mean, tourist season is fast approaching.”_ He had smiled to disarm the situation.

Mikhail had laughed, looking a little relieved, but after this he had caught on to Napoleon’s intentions and was leaning back into Napoleon’s personal space just as much. It had been intoxicating standing so close to him. 

“ _I am in high demand these days, I don’t know.”_ Mikhail had said, his voice low.

_“Maybe there’s something I could do to convince you._ ” He remembered how Mikhail had rolled his eyes and smiled fondly at him, and it was something so small but it so fundamentally shifted something in Napoleon that he was still reeling. He had denied it in the moment, but there had been something special about this mark. He was not in the habit of seeing marks after his work was done, unfortunately he began to feel the bitter regret that came with that particular rule. He felt it more potently than ever. 

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling with his movement. It didn’t quite work, but he told himself to focus on the mission. He skipped forward in his tape.

 _“So what are the Russians building these days?”_ He heard his own breathless voice ask. He smiled slightly at the memory as he listened to Mikhail moan and gasp. He could imagine his blond hair sticking with sweat to his forehead and that beautiful blush colouring his cheeks. He had seemed so shy until Napoleon had really gotten him to open up, and he had opened up so beautifully.

Napoleon shook himself out of his reverie once again—oh this was really going to be a problem— and he quickly jotted down the information he had gotten about the Russian construction project.

Igniting his car, he pealed out onto the street. The night was still and quiet despite his heart thundering. Later, when he snuck past guards on the construction site he found himself pausing to consider beams of wood and abandoned hammers, wondering if Mikhail’s firm hands had manipulated those tools, and he nearly lost himself again in a dream about what hard, sweaty work that must have been.

He took a deep breath and continued with his task. He still had a lot to learn about keeping a clear head on a mission. 

 

— 

 

The other annoying side effect of his encounter with the American was that he began seeing him places he certainly wasn’t. It was strange, because he remembered his strikingly handsome features. They weren’t common. So when he saw an impeccable suit, or perfectly styled raven hair, it gave him pause. But there were always one or two things off about the men he saw. 

In Athens once, he even stopped a man on the street, convinced. It wasn’t him. It never was.

This time, though, in East Berlin, it really was him. If not for the unmistakeable cut of his jaw, and the dimple in his chin, Oleg’s briefing about the agent had set Illya’s nerves alight.

He was actively working against him now. He wasn’t sure how to feel. 

His mission was to stop him from getting a girl, there was no reason anyone had to get hurt in the process, but when Illya caught himself thinking that he realized that his earlier encounter with this agent had affected him worse than he had thought. 

People die, people get hurt in this line of work. A good lay was no exception. 

Though as hard as he tried, this irritation stayed with him as the mission progressed from bad to worse. The American slipped through his fingers again. The rage that filled Illya boiled his blood. 

He wasn’t sure how he was going to get over this.

 

—

 

“Why don’t you shoot him?” Gaby said. 

“Somehow, it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.” Napoleon stared into the Russian’s eyes. Those familiar ice blue irises stared back, they are filled with emotion, but it was mostly rage. His focus on this mission was nearly impossible to break. But only nearly. 

Napoleon had really hoped they would meet again under nicer circumstances. Napoleon had no idea how to process that the two of them also seemed to be in the same line of work. 

He did not feel bad for beating him, succeeding in his mission to get Gaby, but he did almost regret leaving him behind. He wasn’t sure now if he _could_ ever see him again. 

There was of course the larger question now of who he actually was. 

“Mikhail,” Napoleon said to himself that night as he fell asleep. 

He furrowed his brow. It didn’t seem right.

 

—

 

The next day Illya wordlessly followed Oleg down the streets of Berlin. His dressing down for failing his mission was bound to be spectacular, but his mind could only think _I saw him again_. 

And then he did. 

Illya was not sure what rage possessed him in that moment to tackle the American to the ground. To his credit he fought back, and it wasn’t as if Illya was going to kill him. 

He was just taking out some of his frustration. 

_“Try not to kill your partner on the first day,”_ Oleg’s words rang through Illya’s mind through the haze of his anger and confusion. 

He would try. 

 

—

 

Napoleon sat in the wake of the destroyed table, in the abandoned cafe, wondering what exactly he did to deserve all of this. 

He had insulted the Russian’s mother, yes, and he wasn’t dumb enough to think it wasn’t cruel. He had meant it to be cruel. He had not expected to feel so rotten afterwards. 

Illya was different than anyone Napoleon had met before, and he knew this. His ice-cold demeanour might have intimidated him had he not seen the beautiful way Napoleon could make him come apart with his kisses. 

But his rule still stood. He did not revisit previous marks, regardless of who they were. Certainly he did not want to _work_ with them. Something about Illya’s pure _Sovietness_ had made him think perhaps he never would. 

Perhaps Illya was right about the CIA and that leash. 

 

—

 

With the click of the door, Illya felt his heart sink. Gaby was gone, and it was just the two of them again. Illya was more irritated than anything at the thought of this, of the inevitable conversation. He liked Gaby. Not only because she was beautiful and smart but because her presence was the necessary buffer between him and his partner, without which Illya was not sure he could behave himself the way his handler wanted. 

Sure enough, Napoleon stalked up from behind him, placing his glass of whiskey down on the table beside his chess pieces with a soft thud, he spoke. 

“So. _Mikhail._ Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“I did not either.”

“Tell me, is this going to be awkward?”

“Why would it be? We are professionals, are we not?”

“Why of course, but I’m sure I’d find it a little easier to be professional if you didn’t constantly look like you wanted to kill me.”

“Do not take it personal. There is Cold War going on.”

Napoleon let out a humourless chuckle at that. With a small smile he said, “We both know this isn’t political.”

“Yes it was.” 

Napoleon furrowed his brow. His words did not come out as smoothly as usual. “What happened between us… I used you for intel. That’s not political, it’s just… it’s an unsavoury part of the job. I don’t want it to affect our partnership, you know, for the sake of the mission.”

“I used you the same way,” Illya said, not taking his eyes off of his chessboard. Napoleon stilled. 

“What?” 

This time Illya turned his gaze towards him, tilting his head, he said, “You were not the only one on a mission.”

“You knew I was CIA?”

“Didn’t you know I was KGB?”

“Well. No.”

“Typical American intelligence. So far behind,” Illya scoffed. 

“Well you led me to your little Russian building project so I didn’t think it mattered.” 

“And you helped me find rogue operatives in that art gallery.

“I guess we both helped each other out.”

“It was very successful mission.” 

“So then, what happened between us, it meant nothing to you?” Napoleon’s tone almost sounded accusatory. 

“It was a mission, which is why it should be no issue to move on to next one.”

Napoleon blinked. He looked at Illya, his displeasure apparent despite his attempt to look nonplussed. There was a stab of guilt in Illya’s chest. 

“You know, Peril, you’re right.” Illya did not feel any satisfaction at his admission like he thought he would. Napoleon cleared his throat then, saying, “I should turn in. Early morning tomorrow.”

Illya said nothing in reply, staring intently at his chessboard until he heard the click of his door close again. He took a deep breath only then, and rested his face on his hands. 

 

—

 

The next time they were alone, Illya was pacing the room, waiting for Gaby. His nerves were a wreck, and Napoleon’s cool gaze from the opposite end of the room wasn’t helping. He sensed the teasing the American was waiting to do, the questions he had about Gaby— which were nothing he was prepared to answer. He didn’t expect what Napoleon finally said after he got sick of Illya’s pacing. 

“Why did they ever choose you to seduce a mark, Peril. No offence, but it just seems entirely out of your area of expertise, or your sensibilities for that matter.”

“You do not know my expertise or my sensibilities,” Illya snapped back, annoyed

“I think I know you enough to know you are an oaf when it comes to romantic situations.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, alluding to Gaby. This made Illya’s irritation worsen. 

“My assignment was not to seduce. It was to _be_ seduced.”

“That’s a new one.” 

“They tell me mark is debonair type. Likes tall blondes.” 

Napoleon looked stunned. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Illya smirked. Finally, Napoleon cleared his throat and stuttered, “I- well, I like all types, I mean—”

“All I had to do was stand there, Cowboy.”

Napoleon was mercifully saved from having to defend himself further when Gaby walked in. Only a few moments later Napoleon left the room. Illya looked after him, practically dragging his attention back to Gaby.

Once again he was infinitely thankful for her presence. 

 

—

 

They had been betrayed. As Illya lowered the binoculars from his eyes terror, rage, and hurt bubbled up inside of him and he ran. The barking of the dogs chasing after him and his own blood rushing through his head was deafening. 

Something made him certain Napoleon was in trouble. He wasn’t prepared for just how much. 

“I never thought I’d say this but I’m actually happy to see you.” 

The American shot him a grateful look as he freed him from his constraints. Illya looked at the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the way his hair was coming loose from its pomade. His skin was pale and Illya carefully monitored his breathing. 

Illya felt like a piece of him had been torn out of his chest. Napoleon could have died, and it scared Illya just how much he was willing to do to make sure that wouldn’t happen again. 

There was of course the debt that Illya had owed the American for saving him from drowning. That had just been paid. Yet he still felt that rage boiling inside of him and fear that made him think that this was a loss he could never incur. 

He decided not to think about it just then. There was a mission at hand. 

Only after he had strapped Rudi to the chair did he dare turn to Napoleon again. 

“Are you okay?” 

Napoleon looked back at him, his expression inscrutable. Illya ignored his flinch as he laid his hands on him checking for further injuries. 

“I’ll be fine,” Napoleon said, squirming out of Illya’s reach. 

Illya looked at him then, annoyed. He looked back, unsure. 

“I’m sorry about Gaby.”

“Do not worry about her now.”

Napoleon looked surprised at Illya’s reaction. But then their gazes were both drawn to where Rudy was burning to a crisp in his own malfunctioning chair. 

“I left my favourite jacket in there,” Napoleon frowned. 

Illya rolled his eyes. They did not have time for this. 

 

—

 

_“Kill your partner, if necessary.”_

Napoleon looked across the aisle of the airplane. Sometimes he really fucking resented the CIA. This was the job. It was cutthroat, there could be no attachments. Then why did he feel so goddamn attached to this Russian monstrosity in front of him, who no doubt was receiving the same instructions, and who no doubt would follow them without hesitation? 

Napoleon didn’t have any answers in the moment. 

But later, when he caught a glimpse of that familiar, ugly old watch on the wrist of some Vinciguerra goon, he didn’t think twice before taking it and slipping it in his pocket. 

After all, his original calling had been as a thief. 

 

—

 

Oleg had said _“Kill the American if necessary.”_ Illya had never disobeyed an order. 

He stood, shaking, wondering why it felt like there were a thousand bullet-holes in his chest. Gaby’s betrayal had felt excruciating, but it had been nothing like this. Unbelievable pain and anger burned through him. And why? Were they not just doing their jobs? Was this not, ultimately, going to be part of the job?

Napoleon opened the door, and even through the haze of red in his eyes, Illya felt his chest become lighter, his heart softened at the sight of him. _Why?_

His hands shook. The disc. It was in plain sight among Napoleon’s things. 

He was saying something, Illya couldn’t hear him. The weight of his gun in his jacket was like lead. But then, Napoleon’s voice, faintly, told him to catch something. 

Without thinking, he reached his hand out. In it landed the smooth, familiar weight of his father’s watch. He looked down, almost in disbelief. The smooth leather, the scuffed surface. He looked up at Napoleon then, in complete awe. _Why?_

Why hadn’t he just killed him? Why did he take the time to get his watch back? Napoleon wouldn’t even flinch under Illya’s gaze. _Why?_

He strapped the watch back on his wrist. He had a million questions, but whether he would kill his partner was not one of them.

 

—

 

“I’m going to go see if I can get Waverley to cough up more details about Istanbul.” She turned on her heel and marched out. Illya stared down into his drink, then out onto Rome. He felt Napoleon’s gaze on him. 

“Will it be an issue, Peril, if we work together?” 

Illya thought about it. The nickname Napoleon had given him made something in his stomach flutter each time. It was something special between them, but it didn’t smart of the deceit that _Mikhail_ did. Working with Napoleon had been less bad than Illya had anticipated. This mission had gone alright. In fact, it had been more enjoyable and satisfying than he remembered any work being for a long time. 

“No issue,” Illya said finally, and he downed the rest of his drink. He glanced up at Napoleon. He did not look convinced. 

“Thanks for not killing me, by the way.”

“Thank you for the watch.”

Napoleon smiled, but it was a smaller, more hesitant thing. “Should we tell Waverley? Or Gaby?”

“What is there to tell?” Illya felt a slight thrum of panic. He normally worked best alone, and indeed regardless of this mission he still felt that he would be fine alone. But, even as it galled him to admit to himself, he had _liked_ working with this team. He allowed himself this one selfishness, that he would not allow their past to ruin this possible new future. 

Napoleon looked at him for a long moment and smiled; a polite smile, not a real one. He took a sip of his drink. “I suppose there’s nothing.” 

 

—

 

Their next mission took them to Istanbul. The spires of mosques shot through the skyline and the streets were buzzing with people and stray cats. 

Their job was fairly straightforward. A rich man with big secrets, and a weakness for handsome, raven-haired men. Napoleon looked forward to it as much as one looks forward to knee surgery, just happy to get it over with. 

This mission seemed to strike a nerve with Illya, however. Napoleon noticed the tenseness in his frame when Waverley had been briefing them. Perhaps this was a cruel reminder of their own story. Napoleon watched the irritation take over Illya’s hulking frame slowly, transforming him into a shadow of the violent thing Napoleon knew he could be. It didn’t frighten him. Strangely, it made him curious. 

When they were alone in the hotel room, he sauntered over to the Russian hunched over a game of chess. 

“Jealous, Peril?” 

Illya looked up, confused. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I saw how you looked in the briefing today.”

“Your eyes are playing trick on you.”

“What is it that you’re jealous about exactly?” 

Illya huffed, annoyed. Napoleon smiled. 

“Are you upset that it’s not you and Gaby playing lovers this time?”

“No, why are you bringing her into this?”

“So is it about me, then?”

Illya looked at Napoleon for a long moment, his mouth set in a grim line.

“I do not like that they send you to these kind of missions.” 

“It’s just part of the job, I mean it’s how I met you.” 

That hadn’t been the right thing to say. Illya’s mouth twisted into a frown. 

“It was not good way to meet.” 

Napoleon shrugged, “well I had fun.”

“Is that what everything is about to you? Fun?”

“Well, no not _everything.”_

“When we met the first time, that was just fun?”

“Peril, I don’t understand why you’re acting like this.”

“Answer my question.”

“Of course it was fun,” he had said the wrong thing. 

Suddenly fuming, Illya got up and left the room. Napoleon called after him to no avail. He slammed the door on his way out. 

 

—

 

The mission began and ended sour. 

It began with Gaby’s warning. “I realize you two are fighting again, because I have eyes, but do not let that affect your communication on this mission, okay?”

They had sullenly stared back at her until the sheer rage in her gaze had forced them both to mumble, “okay.” 

Gaby did not seem satisfied. But they continued on. 

The target was drinking in the bar of an opulent hotel. Illya watched as Napoleon straightened his tie, checked his hair in a nearby reflection, and put on his charming mask. It was revolting. 

Illya and Gaby were hanging back, posing as two patrons of the bar. Everything was going to plan. Occasionally Illya would sneak a glance at Napoleon’s progress, or listen in through his earpiece. To his dismay, it was going perfectly. 

Napoleon was beautiful, Illya could not deny it. More than that, he knew just what it took to make people melt. It had worked on Illya, after all. The more he watched Napoleon leaning into the man’s space, placing his hand suggestively on his arm, his chest, flashing him that dazzling smile, the more it felt like someone was shoving a dagger directly into Illya’s chest. 

The pain felt excruciating as Illya watched Napoleon walk their target out of the bar and into the hotel. He kept his earpiece on but turned down the volume, he wasn't sure how long he was going to be able to handle hearing what was about to happen. But this was his first mistake. 

  
His second mistake was splitting up with Gaby who left to find the getaway car. He stayed back to monitor the situation with Napoleon. The American had twenty minutes to get what he needed from their target. 

When those twenty minutes had past, Illya listened closely to his earpiece, although he had muffled the sounds of Napoleon’s moans, he had heard nothing from his partner and began to worry. On the twenty first minute, Illya bounded up to the target’s room.

Without thinking, he burst in, and there was Napoleon, alone, naked, and bound to the bed with ropes. The target was nowhere in sight. 

Illya froze for a moment in panic, but Napoleon’s muffled shouts from behind his gag launched him into action and he began untying him immediately. 

“Are you okay?” Illya asked. The sight of him like that made Illya feel like the pit of his stomach had dropped out of his body. He yearned to check Napoleon’s body for injuries, or to land a few punches on whoever did this to him. 

But the first thing Napoleon said when released from his gag was, “Gaby.”

“What?” 

“This was a decoy, they went after Gaby.” 

Illya saw red. Robotically, he moved and tossed Napoleon his clothes. “Quickly,” was all he said to him before running back down the way they had come. 

Rushing out into the tepid evening air, Illya searched the immediate area around them for any clues of where Gaby would have gone. He only saw her car in a wreck by the side of the building. 

He ran to it but found it empty, glittering with broken glass. His hands began to shake, and he felt his chest well up with desperation. Still, he looked around methodically for signs of Gaby’s whereabouts, and he noticed on the ground a few feet away from the car, the most minuscule of details, one of her false eyelashes. 

That was when Napoleon came running out of the hotel, shirt half-unbuttoned and not tucked in. “I know where they took her,” he said, breathless.

With no more words, he followed Napoleon to a car in which they drove to the far ends of the city. An abandoned looking building. Grabbing their guns they broke in quietly, shooting down guards in their path.

They finally came upon a room where Gaby was tied to a chair. She stared up at her captor defiantly, but she still looked so small in the chair where he loomed over her. The same rich guy from the bar. Illya scowled. A deep purple bruise was blooming on her face.

His anger took over everything in that moment and without a seconds further hesitation he ploughed through the door and took out every goon in sight. He saw only red, and heard nothing but a din in his ears. Faintly, he felt a stinging in his arm, but he proceeded, thinking nothing of it until the room was clear for Napoleon to free Gaby and for them to run back out to their car. 

“Are you okay?” he asked Gaby in the car. He was woozy, in the backseat, clutching his arm, which had been bleeding but which someone had patched with a makeshift bandage. 

“I’m fine, you’re the one that was shot,” Gaby’s voice was harsh.

“Sorry,” Illya slurred. 

“Stay with us, buddy,” Napoleon said, turning his head briefly back to look at him from where he was driving. 

Illya felt heavy and a little tired. But he was alert enough to be annoyed, “I’m fine.” 

“But your performance back there was far from it,” Gaby snapped.

“I apologize for saving you,” Illya tried his best at sarcasm, but it was met with silence.

“Saving me? Illya, I was fine, I was getting the information we needed and you killed our best source.” 

“Didn’t Cowboy get that?”

Gaby turned to Napoleon, “Did you?”

“I got something,” then, with one hand on the wheel Napoleon rifled around in his pants pockets producing a small computer disk. 

“He was a little sloppy but overall not a bad lay,” he offered as his only explanation. Illya felt his chest burn, perhaps the gunshot was worse than he had thought. 

Gaby snatched the disk out of Napoleon’s hand gratefully. “We’ll send this to the lab and see. It’s not perfect, but it’ll give us a start.” 

She sighed then. “You’re both lucky we got this, but this was a terrible mission. Incredibly sloppy. This cannot happen again.”

Gaby looked at Illya then, and he felt microscopic beneath her gaze. 

“It won’t.” 

He heard Napoleon sigh. 

 

—

 

Gaby retired to her room for the night, nursing her bruise and her sore wrists. Napoleon felt his blood beginning to boil. She was hurt for absolutely nothing. Because Illya just had to interfere. He had some words for the Russian, and none of them were kind. He stayed quiet on their car ride back to the hotel. In fact, Napoleon managed to contain his anger right up until the moment he crowded Illya into his room. 

“What is your problem, Illya?” Napoleon practically exploded. It was uncharacteristic of him, regardless of how angry he was, but this time was different. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. You heard Gaby. That mission was a mess. Who knows what they did to poor Gaby in there, let alone the fact that you got _shot_ , so I’ll ask you again, what is your problem?” 

“My problem is that I didn’t want to see my partner die,” Illya replied coldly. 

“I was _fine._ This is my _job!”_

“You should go back to being thief.” Illya was playing the dispassionate card. His deadpan, intentional lack of emotion only made Napoleon angrier. 

“You should stay out of my business, Kuryakin. You compromised the mission, you got yourself hurt, you got Gaby hurt.” 

“I did not mean for Gaby to be involved in any of this.” 

“Illya, you have to trust us.”

Illya was silent for a moment but then his anger resurged. He could feel his finger begin to tap against his thigh, and he watched Napoleon eye the motion and the wariness on his face replacing anger.

“This was not right.” 

“You know better than anyone it’s what I have to do.”

“Whore yourself out for information? It’s disgusting.” 

“You would know about that, wouldn’t you?”

Napoleon watched Illya’s expression carefully but the KGB had taught him too well. There was nothing in his eyes. Napoleon felt wretched, suddenly. He knew the weight his words carried, but he was hurt as well, he had lashed out. 

Before he could say anything else, Illya wordlessly left the room. 

Napoleon couldn’t even bring himself to watch him go and only heard the door click shut. 

 

—

 

The next day Napoleon felt a distinct ache of regret when he woke up. He felt unbelievably _sorry_ for what he had said to Illya the night before and he had no idea why. He was not used to feeling like this. 

He thought about it for a long time, finally coming to a conclusion in the shower. 

He had thought he could compartmentalize his heart and tuck away the people that had set that heart on fire, deep somewhere forgotten. Ever since they first met, Napoleon had been completely drawn to Illya and he had known that getting to know him would have been the fatal error. Then he did it, he got to know him, and his surprising gentleness and his care for the team, his stubbornness and spartan tastes… all of it he found he could forgive and not hide in his heart but allow to take residence all throughout it, completely. 

The way the sunlight filtered through Illya’s hair. The way he looked at him, annoyed and fond at the same time. The way Illya was just a few inches taller. How broad his shoulders were. How deep his voice was, his laugh. 

These images ran through Napoleon’s mind like a movie that he couldn’t stop watching, that he never wanted to stop watching.

He realized, startled, that he was in love. 

 

—

 

Illya was often annoyed, but there was nothing and no one he had known in his whole life who inspired so much overwhelming irritation in him as Napoleon did. 

Everything about him was frustrating. The reckless way he lived his life, his unbelievable excess in art and clothes and sex. The way he noticed everything about Illya, making him his favourite foods, reading Russian novels to discuss them with Illya on long flights, watching his back every mission without fail. 

Nothing was more frustrating however than the way Napoleon saw right through Illya, right into the very marrow of his bones. He knew just what to say to make him smile, to make him angry, to make him sad. Illya was like putty in his hands. He had been ever since their first meeting, when Napoleon had been William. 

Even more than that, whenever Illya saw him with anyone else, a dull ache came to replace wherever his vital organs were and flooded his mind with rage and distraction and jealousy. He could not be part of honeypot missions anymore, he had made that clear. 

This was dangerous, this was terrifying. This was getting in the way of his work. 

Illya couldn’t let it continue. 

 

—

 

When Napoleon knocked on Illya’s door he really did not have any plan in mind. He harboured his realization like a rabid fox under his clothes, ready at any moment to consume him entirely. 

When he opened the door, Illya greeted him sullenly. All the furniture in the room was in pieces. 

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” he tried to joke. Illya was having none of it. 

“Just tell me what you want.”

"How's your arm?"

"It is healing, is that all you wanted?"

“I…well… I don’t particularly want anything,” Napoleon’s usual smoothness was gone, his words were failing him. He looked at Illya who in return gazed back unfeeling and expressionless. It did nothing to calm Napoleon.

“I came here to apologize for what I said last night.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t mean to be so cruel, but it was just a heated discussion clearly and I was being defensive. Can you forgive me?”

“Okay. Is that all?”

“Uh, well, I suppose it is.”

“Alright, I will see you for our flight tomorrow.”

With that, Illya opened the door to his room and Napoleon was rushed out. Before he could close the door Napoleon turned back.

“You’re acting strange, is it something else I said?”

“No. Everything is fine now.” 

“Are you sure? I think we should talk more. Will you have dinner with me tonight?” 

“No, thank you. Goodnight.” 

With that, the door was firmly shut in Napoleon’s face. He felt stunned. The rejection did sting in that moment, but Napoleon sensed with a sense of dread that the problem was much deeper. He stared at Illya’s closed door for longer than he should have until finally he made himself turn back and head to his room. 

 

—

 

After this encounter they completed two missions across two continents in terse silence. Outside of the basic communication they needed during the missions themselves, Illya kept to himself, and talked to Gaby, and Napoleon had a revolving door of lovers every night in each place they found themselves in. 

Illya’s rejection had hurt more than he was willing to let on, and it hurt more than he was able to hide without someone else sharing his bed. If Illya noticed or cared he didn’t let on, and Napoleon was glad for the distractions.

Gaby, however, was displeased. 

“We’re not much of a team anymore, now are we?” she asked him one night in Amsterdam. Their mission had been completed early, they had a few more days in the city but they were just downtime. The evil genius had come to his room with scotch and promised dancing. Instead he was being subject to an interrogation. Usually it was the bad guys that did that. Maybe Gaby had a point.

“The missions have been going fine, haven’t they?”

“Not like Rome.” 

“Well, that was a fluke then.” 

“Will you least _try_ to talk to him.”

“It’s not about him.”

“Napoleon, look I don’t know what’s going on between you two…” 

Napoleon glanced up at her sharply, he knew he couldn’t stop himself from looking a little afraid. How much could she know? But Gaby quickly continued.

“…and I don’t care. I just want you to talk again.” 

“I don’t think he wants that,” Napoleon took a deep breath and a deep swig of his drink.

“Why? Did you fight? Just apologize.”

“It’s more complicated than that. We have… we have a history.”

“Before U.N.C.L.E.?” 

Maybe she didn’t know anything, then. Napoleon was impressed. But he took Gaby’s words to heart. If they were to be a team— and he was surprised he was saying this—he wanted to be a real team. They couldn’t have secrets, even though as spies, that was literally what they dealt in. 

“He and I slept together once, a long time ago.”

“Oh.” There was no judgement in it, only surprise. 

“It was for a mission, we were both undercover.”

“I see.” 

“I think I might have feelings for him.” Napoleon noticed his hands beginning to shake. 

“Oh, Napoleon.” There was no pity in her voice, he was surprised, only happiness, and surprise.“Have you told him?”

“No. I tried to but he’s not interested in me like that.” 

“Are you sure?”

“What kind of a question is that Gaby? Yes I’m sure, he’s made it pretty damn clear by not talking to me for two months.” 

Gaby pursed her lips. 

“Try again. He will come around.” 

“Don’t say anything to him, please.” Napoleon’s chest filled with panic in that moment, he didn’t want to be made a bigger fool than he already was. 

“I won’t. I promise.” Gaby fixed him with a stare that calmed him somewhat. It certainly assured him he could trust her. His hands still wouldn’t stop shaking.

He set his glass down and sank deeper into the couch where he was sitting. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and never come back up. 

“Napoleon. Try again, please. I think he just needed some time.”

Napoleon thought for a long moment. 

“I’ll try.” 

 

—

 

After his talk with Gaby, her suggestion began to take residence in his mind. He got up the nextmorning, looking out into the canals and tulips of the city before him, and he made up his mind to offer an olive branch to the Russian. 

He found him sitting at the cafe across the street from their hotel, sipping a steaming mug of coffee and reading the paper. He was a sight to behold first thing in the morning, his face freshly shaven, his hair still a little tousled and damp from his shower. Napoleon felt a concerning warmth in his chest at the sight of him.

Battling this feeling, Napoleon approached him at the table. 

“Morning Peril,” he started, with a smile that was small but genuine. 

Illya’s eyes flicked up from his paper and glanced at him briefly before returning to his reading. His expression remained nonplussed. 

When he didn’t say anything further, uncertainty dislodged in Napoleon’s chest and he resisted the urge to wring his hands from his nervousness. He kept talking instead to fill the silence that was growing awkward. 

“I had an answer to your question about Van Gogh.”

Illya looked up again at him, expression unchanged. The question had been asked about three months ago at this point, and all it had been was, “what was the big deal with him?” 

“But, you’re going to have to come with me to the museum to get it.” 

Illya looked at him for a moment, his brow furrowed slightly. “No thank you. I am busy today.” 

Napoleon felt deflated. Pushing the vast feeling of disappointment down in his chest he mustered a smile. “Not a problem, then. Another time. I was just going today anyway.” 

“That’s nice for you,” Illya was already reading his paper again. 

“I suppose it is.” 

As rotten as he felt, Napoleon decided he wasn’t going to let this ruin his day or derail his plans. Stepping out of the cafe, he got on his bicycle. He went to the museum anyway. 

As soon as he stepped inside he felt something deep inside of him begin to stir, and despite the heavy weight that had settled on his chest, he felt light as air. As he looked at the beautiful works of art around him, his fingers began to itch, an old reflex, an old desire to steal that came up every time he was in an art gallery. He ignored it, clasping his hands behind his back, he walked leisurely through the gallery. 

He let himself get wrapped up in the technique, the beauty, and the history behind the works of art, the pain and the emotion wrapped up in every brushstroke. 

But suddenly he began to have this peculiar feeling—like he was being watched. He turned on that instinct and saw Illya. Imagine his surprise. 

“I thought you said you didn’t want to come.” 

“I changed my mind.”

“Did Gaby make you?”

“She did not. Is the invitation no longer open?”

“No, uh, of course the invitation is still open,” and Napoleon’s mouth fell into a clumsy smile. 

“That is good then.” Illya stepped closer and turned his attention to the piece in front of them. 

“It is field,” the Russian said bluntly. “Tell me, what is big deal.”

Napoleon laughed, but willingly obliged.

 

—

 

“Well this one actually captures a peaceful moment in Van Gogh’s rather tumultuous life. He wrote to this mother and sister about it, Van Gogh, that is, that he was feeling oddly tranquil when painting this, that this was precisely the mood he needed to paint it…” 

Illya watched Napoleon’s face light up as he explained the painting in front of him. It was beautiful, but not as beautiful as Napoleon. It was blue, but the shades the Dutch painter had chosen were not nearly as dynamic as those blues in Napoleon’s eyes. If Van Gogh had seen them, if he had known, perhaps he would have painted differently. 

He realized he was barely listening but somehow he couldn’t focus. He had missed this, the smooth baritone of Napoleon’s voice, the breathless way he spoke when he was excited, the way his hands moved. 

Illya found himself smiling helplessly, wondering how he could have ignored Napoleon for so long, pretended that he wouldn’t forgive him for anything he said.

Before when the thought about how Napoleon made him feel, there had been only fear, but for some reason now, he thought about everything their first meeting had meant to him. 

He felt content to have Napoleon like this, if nothing else. To observe him like a painting from behind a velvet rope. He could keep his distance. 

“Does it make more sense to you now?” Napoleon asked, turning to him, finally. 

“Yes,” Illya said, “I still don’t like it.” 

Napoleon rolled his eyes, bemused. Then he did something that startled Illya, he reached down and grabbed his hand and tugged him forward through the gallery. 

“Well then I’m not giving up until we find something you do like.” 

Illya didn’t let go of their clasped hands, although his palm burned where it touched Napoleon’s. He let himself be led further into the gallery, like he had let himself be led out of that bar and into that hotel room so long ago. It felt like finally admitting defeat, but this time he was happy to surrender. 

 

—

 

They didn’t talk about the hand-holding thing for the rest of their time in Amsterdam, nor when their next mission took them to London. Here, however, even Gaby noticed something had changed and their chemistry had returned. The universe had righted itself. 

As a result, the mission was a resounding success. It put Illya in so good a mood, he didn’t think twice before accepting Napoleon’s invitation to have drinks in his room. He didn’t even notice until he was three drinks in that that night, Gaby had conveniently made other plans. 

The dizzying effect of the vodka was settling like a cloud over Illya’s mind. All of his senses were being completely overtaken by its intoxicating effects— or maybe that was just Napoleon. 

The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and he stretched and preened like a cat, exposing the smooth, pale column of his throat. Illya was aware that he was watching it like a hungry wolf. 

Napoleon was aware as well and was doing things just to make Illya’s life more difficult. For instance, he was coming closer and settling in next to Illya on the floor. He was grinning, saying something and leaning his head against Illya’s shoulder. 

Illya felt Napoleon’s laugh rumble through his chest as vibrations on his own skin. 

“Earth to Illya,” Napoleon waved his hand in front of Illya’s eyes, “anyone in there?”

Illya rolled his eyes and turned to look at Napoleon. He was beautiful, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth, his cheeks flushed with alcohol, his curls coming loose from the morning’s pomade. 

“I was thinking about something,” Illya said.

“What?”

“The first time we met.”

Napoleon’s flush deepened. His usual cool demeanour seemed to have disappeared. The lazy smile fell from his face. 

“Which first time?”

“The very first time.”

“When I was William?”

“When I was Mikhail.”

Napoleon looked at him thoughtfully, his gaze intense. 

“I still have the tapes.”

Illya was confused for a moment, maybe it was the vodka, “What tapes?”

Napoleon giggled, “the tapes from all the bugs I hid in my clothes.”

In this moment, Illya understood with perfect clarity. Those secret recordings that he had listened to alone on dark nights, even after they had met again. Those tapes that held a side of Illya that was so vulnerable it scared him. The sounds of his voice and the soft way Napoleon had spoken to him, the things they had said. He did not know if he could listen to those things in Napoleon’s presence and still keep his wits about him. He decided to keep playing dumb. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Napoleon furrowed his brow, “I’ll just show you then,” and he got up before Illya could stop him. 

“Cowboy, it’s not necessary.”

“Oh, but it is,” Napoleon said with drunken determinedness. 

He sat down on the floor in front of Illya and crossed his legs, pulling out a small receiver. It looked ancient, and Illya supposed it was the one he’d had from that original mission. 

“Technology has come far these days,” he muttered to himself. 

Napoleon heard him and looked up with a smirk. He wordlessly fiddled with the device until…

The distinct sound of Illya’s voice in a long protracted moan of pleasure sounded out of it. 

Illya turned beet red and Napoleon burst out laughing. Lunging forward, Illya moved to grab the device and turn it off, as his voice kept coming out of it saying further incriminating things and uttering noises he hadn’t heard himself make in years. Napoleon arched backwards, moving the device deftly out of Illya’s reach until Illya was basically on top of him. Napoleon laughed and Illya realized he was basically sitting in the American’s lap with their faces only inches apart. 

_“Kiss me_ ,” Illya heard, and he wasn’t sure if it was Napoleon on the recording or Napoleon in front of him. Either way, he followed orders. 

He pressed his mouth against Napoleon who parted his lips in surprise. Illya took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, until the warmth from it filtered through his body to his very toes. Napoleon caressed the back of his neck, threading his fingers into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He kissed Illya with an indescribable feeling that made him feel like he was sinking into him like he was drowning in the most beautiful way. 

It was too much. 

 

—

 

He pulled away suddenly, and Napoleon embarrassingly, let out a whine at his absence. The kiss had been mind bending, earth shattering, world ending. It had been a long time coming.

“Peril, what’s wrong?” 

“I can’t do this.” 

Napoleon felt his heart sink again. 

“Why not?”

Illya looked at him for a long moment, so long that Napoleon began to fidget. He finally looked away and backed up, lifting himself off of Napoleon entirely and dusting off his clothes. 

Napoleon stayed lying there, although he realized how pathetic he looked. 

“Peril, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t it mean anything to you?” Napoleon gestured futilely to the transmitter that lay on the floor beside him, forgotten. 

This question seemed to hit a nerve with Illya. 

“Didn’t it mean anything to me? That is the fucking problem, Cowboy.”

“What?” 

“It meant too much.” 

“Illya.”

“It meant everything.”

Napoleon opened his mouth but no sound came out. His heart was feeling a million things all at once and swelling to ten times its size. 

“This is why I cannot be normal,” Illya continued, “why we cannot be partners.” 

“Illya no, we can be partners.”

He looked unsure. 

“We can be friends,” that seemed to displease Illya even more. 

“We can be more,” Napoleon offered, finally. 

He heard Illya’s breath hitch. “I cannot be just for fun.” 

At that Napoleon stood up, walking right into Illya’s space, he smiled when Illya didn’t back away. 

“It meant everything to me too,” Napoleon reached up to hold his hand against Illya’s cheek, he leaned into his touch. 

“I used to have all these rules,” Napoleon took a deep breath, “I used to have all of these guidelines for myself, that I would follow so that I wouldn’t get attached.”

Illya looked at him, unsure. 

“I was thinking about those rules when we met that first time and after I left I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

The corners of Illya’s mouth quirked up, and it was all the encouragement Napoleon needed. 

“When I saw you again in Berlin, I knew I was already in too deep.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What will we do, then?”

“I say to hell with my rules. I’m attached.” 

“Even if it compromises us on missions?” 

“I’ve been compromised this whole time.” 

Illya made a noise somewhere in between a sigh and a sob. He moved forward suddenly and pressed his lips against Napoleon’s. He lit a fire under Napoleon’s skin and trailed his burning hand along the side of his jaw, his neck, his shoulders. Finally, he pulled away, leaving them both breathless, their chests heaving. 

“How do I know you’re going to stay,” Illya looked at him with a kind of intensity Napoleon no longer feared. 

“I promise you this time, I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> who is out here writing fics for this movie in 2019...  
> the painting napoleon is talking about is Wheatfield under Thunderclouds https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/collection/s0106V1962  
> title is from mystery of love by sufjan


End file.
